Creative
by aprilhope
Summary: 308 Brian pov. A good imagination can be torture.


Creative  
by AHS

The new intern. Fuck me.

It was possibly the only scenario I never played out in my head.

Little fucker has always had a rather impressive creative mind, which paid off not just for him, in his art, but also me, as his… yeah… lover.

But I am the advertising wunderkind, and the fuck of a thousand guys' lifetimes, and I'm no slouch myself when it comes to fabulous ideas.

Please. I'm the fucking master.

The things I conjure up make money, orgasms, and me insane, not necessarily in that order.

The night of the Rage party, Justin wasn't… He wasn't _just_ there. He was in my head. He walked up to me while I was fucking… _myself_, quite truly… and pulled my mask off. Told me he could see me, hear me. He knew what I was trying to do and it wouldn't work.

We left together. Went home together. Fill in the rest with sex infinitely better and hotter than the best, hottest sex you've ever had, and you've got it.

But that was fantasy, and in reality, my tactics couldn't have worked any better if I'd fucked "JT." Fucking "Rage" was downright poetic.

Either way, Justin was gone.

After that night, it was probably several weeks before I could fantasize anything like that again. It's tough to know how many, really, 'cause that whole time blurs and slurs into one long trip to hell where I just tried to keep numb enough to not feel the third degree burns.

Seeing his face on tricks and feeling him when I fucked them, that was just some kind of symptom of shock.

Though I don't know why any part of me was in shock. I'd always known he'd leave. And I'd made it happen.

Even at work, I was not my strongest, though I'll deny I ever said that. (Me on a lackluster day is better than anybody else at their best.) But… I fucking pulled it together, because what the fuck choice did I have? Brian Kinney still needed to be brilliant.

And Justin was still gone. Brian Kinney needed to not give a damn.

Nobody could see the images that played behind my eyes all day or know all the ways I imagined him coming back.

Usually, he showed up at the loft. Sometimes it happened at Woody's, Babylon. I saw him constantly at the diner, the real him, but we never managed to… _collide _quite how we did in my mind. Sometimes he had some kind of art show and I came and he was so happy. Or he was babysitting Gus (fuck my subconscious, using my kid).

Once, I even found him under that streetlamp again.

Sometimes no words were spoken, though we were certainly loud. Sometimes he said he was sorry. Sometimes he just said he missed me. Sometimes he asked me to say the words I could never say before.

Sometimes I did.

Shit, such lesbianic daydreaming. Except not, because even the lamest scenarios turned blindingly hot. Once I ran into him at the fucking dentist's office (we had fun with the chair, and a few of the instruments). Once I got a flat tire, and don't ask me how, but he magically arrived with a spare (think I got that from porn, bad porn, fucking Christ but it was so good).

With much less shame, and even a little pride, I'll admit to once fucking Justin in the back row of one of Ian's little concerts… and then onstage.

_We_ got a standing ovation.

Okay, once… we didn't fuck. There was a lot of kissing and holding tight and whispering and… I don't really know what that was about.

Once we were fucking _midair_.

But never did my fevered brain… libido… or that thing in my chest put Justin at Vanguard, as the new art department intern.

Probably so that when I experienced it as reality, I could have that lovely douche bag expression on my face.

As he shook my hand. Calling me "Mr. Kinney." Looking all professional while wearing slacks I think he may literally have painted on. So totally for my benefit.

He's here for me. To get me back. I don't know what happened and I'm pretty sure I don't care.

I smirk and play scary boss man to keep from doing a fucking jig of fucking glee. Or just grabbing him and kissing him. I may not have imagined him here, but it sure as shit doesn't mean I don't know how to throw him down on my desk.

His determination is quieter this time, but I can see it in his eyes. The look that says, "I've already got you, you just don't know it yet."

But I do. He fucking always had me. I just hope I can hold out. At least a day or two.

I didn't know he would come back. I always knew he'd need more and leave eventually, but I was a lot less sure of his return.

I may have come up with a lot of different ways in which Justin might come back to me, but… doesn't mean I knew it would happen. Wouldn't let myself believe it, or even consciously want it.

I knew he'd always want me. Knew the flowers would wilt and the fiddle would go out of tune and Ian would not prove to be what Justin needed, but I sure as fuck thought he needed… deserved better than me. Thought he finally agreed.

I don't know if I can take convincing him of that again. So maybe this time I'll be a little less predictable. Be more creative.

Maybe this time I'll be what he needs.


End file.
